


yeah, stay.

by nysscientia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Pancakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:01:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2011884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nysscientia/pseuds/nysscientia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After that first week, Allison texts him that she’s strong enough to get out of the house, that she misses him.  Scott sends back <em>miss u too</em>, thinks for a minute, and then hits her number on his speed dial.</p>
<p>She’s game, of course.  Allison is a lot of things, but she’s not one to back down, so they make plans for Friday.</p>
<p>Stiles arrives first, knocking on Scott’s front door like they haven’t been barging into each others’ houses for years.  Like he’s never skipped the door altogether and climbed into Scott’s window.</p>
<p>Scott curses the nemeton and the nogitsune all over again while he opens the door, gestures Stiles inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	yeah, stay.

**Author's Note:**

> Canon divergent starting at the end of season 3B, with no spoilers for season 4. Includes minor references to a major injury. Originally written for a meme prompt on [tumblr](http://nysscientia.tumblr.com/).

Allison spends her first week out of the hospital mostly with her dad and occasionally with Isaac, but she texts Scott constantly, consistently. Every time his phone pings, the tension in his shoulders eases a fraction. He’s usually wound up again within a few minutes, but it’s still more of a reprieve than Scott’s had since the alphas first stalked into Beacon Hills.

Stiles, on the other hand, flinches every time. Barely– Scott can probably only tell because of his ramped-up alpha senses and the Stiles-sense he’s grown up with. But his heart skips a beat, and he stops breathing for a second.

Scott can’t stand it.

After that first week, Allison texts him that she’s strong enough to get out of the house, that she misses him. Scott sends back _miss u too_ , thinks for a minute, and then hits her number on his speed dial.

She’s game, of course. Allison is a lot of things, but she’s not one to back down, so they make plans for Friday.

Stiles arrives first, knocking on Scott’s front door like they haven’t been barging into each others’ houses for years. Like he’s never skipped the door altogether and climbed into Scott’s window.

Scott curses the nemeton and the nogitsune all over again while he opens the door, gestures Stiles inside.

His mom sees Stiles arriving and pulls him into a huge hug. It lasts a little too long. Scott notices Stiles’ shoulders starting to draw up and opens his mouth to say something distracting– something inane about their homework, probably– but his mom pulls back at that exact moment, straightens her scrubs.

“Stay out of trouble,” she orders. “Maybe it was a problem last year, but I’ve seen what Scott’s control is like now and you can’t blame any more broken dishes on werewolf shenanigans, hear me?”

“He snarled at me while I was handling hot liquids; I can’t be responsible for bowls lost to overblown alpha posturing!” Stiles answers defensively, flapping his hands. It’s a familiar argument. Scott can feel the tension in the room ease.

His mom gives Stiles a stern look as she gathers her purse and heads for the door.

“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters. “Nothing you could’ve done, I know. At least get some sleep tonight, will you?”

And then she’s gone. Scott listens to the engine start, tracks her car as it huffs its way down their street and out of the neighborhood.

When he turns back to the living room, Stiles is drifting through the space, examining the photos on the mantle as though they’re unfamiliar. He keeps doing this lately: one minute he’s Stiles, Scott’s biffle since day one– and the next he’s like a patient under quarantine, afraid of contaminating anything around him.

Scott steers him upstairs and boots up the X-Box, and they spend a few minutes like it’s two years ago and neither of them have ever been anything but plain human. He pauses the game when he hears a familiar engine purr its way up the street, though.

“Aw, man, just cause you’re awed by the glory of my kill spree–” Stiles complains. He stops himself, though; probably picking up that Scott’s hearing something. He follows Scott downstairs, quiet, and stands near the foot of the stairs while Scott goes to the front door.

He accidentally opens it before she has a chance to knock. Allison’s not phased when it swings open, just drops her raised hand. She goes stiff for a second when her eyes fall on Stiles, but she quickly pushes through whatever sense memories she’s having. She drops what she’s holding, flings her arms around Scott and buries her face in his shoulder.

Suddenly, everything is her scent: clean and a little spicy, citrus perfume and bowstring wax and cinnamon candles. It’s so different from the last few times he’s seen her, when the tang of blood and the acid of antiseptic were everywhere, that Scott loses himself for a moment. He cradles her head and wraps himself around her narrow shoulders, breathes deep.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

Her voice is thick when she replies, “Hey.”

Allison pulls back first, dabs at the corner of her eye. Then she tilts her chin up and turns to Stiles, who’s still standing at the bottom of the stairs, frozen and pale.

“How’s it going?” she says.

Stiles looks up and almost meets her eyes.

“Fine. How’s your– how are… you?” he says haltingly.

Scott crosses his arms over his chest to keep from walking forward, from saying anything. He knows Stiles never managed to visit Allison in the hospital.

She shrugs, expression twisting into a half-smile.

“I’m okay,” she answers, but she’s got a hand spread gingerly over her stomach.

Stiles’ gaze drops to the floor again. “Good. That’s good.”

There’s silence for a moment. Scott tries reciting multiplication tables in his head, reviewing recent words-of-the-day, anything to keep himself from interfering.

Then Allison takes a deep breath and crouches, scoops up what she dropped. It’s a plate covered over with foil.

“I brought cookies,” she announces. “My dad went a little bake-happy while I was in the hospital. It’s kind of a family thing, I think; my mom used to–”

She stops abruptly, holds the cookies out to Scott. “Anyway, here.”

Scott smiles at her, tries to send encouragement her way. He takes a cookie, even though Argent family baked goods still make him kind of nervous. It’s delicious.

“Well, if you guys are going to– uh, maybe I should–” Stiles starts, making his way towards his coat– which he hung neatly on the coatrack instead of throwing across the banister, like Scott’s mom used to yell at him for all the time– but Scott stops him with a hand on his chest. He drops the other onto Stiles’ shoulder.

“I was hoping we could all hang out?”

Stiles looks at Scott’s hands, then up at the ceiling. He closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them, he glances first at Scott, then settles his gaze on Allison.

“Yeah,” she says immediately, nodding. “Stay.”

-

They finish the entire plate of cookies.

They hang out in Scott’s room, sitting on the floor and eating, getting crumbs everywhere. The conversation is stilted at first, like they’re stretching muscles they haven’t used in a long time, but once they get going it’s familiar– almost surreally so. They talk, laugh, make fun of teachers at school. Scott and Stiles trade inside jokes; Allison makes cutting remarks at Scott while giving him adoring looks. The first time she and Stiles team up to mock him, they both freeze for a second, Allison’s head whipping towards Stiles in surprise, Stiles’ eyes closing like he’s braced for a blow.

The moment cracks wide open when Scott claims injustice, and the conversation devolves into banter about whether it’s fair for Allison and Stiles to use their combined knowledge of Scott against him. It’s the first time Scott’s seen Stiles laugh full-bodied in weeks.

His mom’s on an overnight shift, so they ignore the croaky old grandfather clock when it chimes one, then two. Sometime before three, Allison disappears for the bathroom and Stiles ransacks Scott’s closet, returns with a hoodie. He pulls it over his head, then climbs into Scott’s bed like he’s done a million times before.

“Thanks,” he says to the ceiling, so quietly Scott’s wolf senses kick in.

Scott stands up, stretches. “Don’t worry about it, dude. I’ll always be around to pull your head out of your ass.”

Stiles sits bolt upright, offended, opening his mouth to protest– so Scott pounces on him, gets his hands on the ticklish spot right under Stiles’ ribs.

When Allison comes back, they’re squirming, Stiles attempting to thrash Scott off of him with a pillow. She laughs and jumps in with them.

She knows about Scott’s sensitive knees, the traitor.

Eventually Stiles laughs himself out of breath and Scott cries uncle under Allison’s unfailing accuracy with poking. They collapse around each other, burrowed into Scott’s rumpled bedspread.

Scott exhales, long and loud. It feels like the first time he’s breathed really deeply in awhile. They lie in silence.

“You know,” Allison says, then, “I hate what happened. But I don’t blame you.”

Scott feels the bed shift, guesses she’s turning to face Stiles. 

“Either of you,” she adds.

There’s more shuffling– probably a hug of some kind. Scott smiles up at the ceiling.

A hand slides into his right, then another into his left. One’s deft and delicate; the other is strong and lean. They’re both familiar, and he squeezes tight.

-

Scott dug the air mattress out of the hall closet, but they never do inflate it. He wakes up in his clothes, alone on his bed but still kind of uncomfortably warm in the late spring air. There’s movement downstairs, and two heartbeats he’s got memorized.

He drifts down the stairs, feeling incredibly muzzy. There’s way too much sun coming in through the hall window.

The kitchen smells amazing. The whole house does, actually, but it’s especially potent when he’s close, warm and homey.

“Morning, princess,” Stiles says.

“Afternoon,” Allison corrects immediately, doing something with a spatula. Scott’s not really paying attention. He sits down at the table and rubs his eyes.

“It’s Saturday. Morning doesn’t end until four,” Stiles says with a shrug, and takes something from her. He slides it across the table at Scott.

“Pancakes?” Scott blurts.

“Don’t worry, we fed Melissa before she went to bed,” Stiles answers. “She said this is the first time you’ve stayed in bed past nine in months, so we let you sleep.”

Scott feels like he’s falling behind; he’s not done with the pancake concept yet. “Where did you find pancake mix?”

Allison rolls her eyes. “We found buttermilk and eggs.”

“Oh.”

Sometime during the conversation, a fork and a syrup bottle have appeared, so Scott takes them and starts eating. He makes it through a pancake and a half before he starts to feel really awake.

When he does, he almost jumps away from the table.

“You guys, sit down, I can do this. I’ll– eggs, I’ll make eggs!” he exclaims.

“That was next,” Allison says, still manning the stove.

“And you have real bacon,” Stiles adds, smiling beatifically. “From actual pigs.”

Then he throws a dishtowel at Scott and orders him to keep eating, makes several weirdly breakfast-specific threats of bodily harm until Scott gives in and finishes his pancakes.

“When I invited you guys over,” Scott says, once his plate is empty, “this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“That’s because you think being a werewolf means you’re responsible for the entirety of the universe,” Allison dismisses, dishing up more pancakes. “Now shut up and let someone else take care of you for once.”

Stiles pulls his head out of the refrigerator and claps her approvingly on the shoulder, then pours Scott a huge glass of orange juice.

It’s extra pulp, which his mom knows is his favorite. Scott drinks it.


End file.
